A Story of Revision: Agony
by Nera Fiore
Summary: After losing the Quidditch Cup in his third year, Draco tries to numb the loss with alcohol. Harry finds him trying to cope. Mild slash, DracoHarry.


**Agony  
****("The Remix", yes, Heather, this is the remix)  
****By Aly the Wheelerchick, aka Alyssa the Black Flower**

**HP copywritten to JKR and Warner Bros, and people that aren't me, no profits made here, no suing, please!**

**This idea hit me at 11:37 PM. I had to write it. What'd you expect me to do? Leave it dangling there in the wind! You expect that from someone like me! C'mon! I don't procrastinate, I"m just a slacker. Also, I typed while people IM-ed me constantly, but I stayed online, simply because I was watching for my boyfriend to sign on, and I'm like that. It's dedicated to Heather and Lauren.**

It was another victory for Gryffindor. It was _always_ another victory for Gryffindor.

He couldn't get a break, could he? Draco pondered lazily in the lavatory, and pressed the bottle to his lips and let the warm taste of the alcohol burn in his throat. He coughed violently for a moment, and then swallowed. The other boys on the team told him it wouldn't be good if he drank so much - that being thirteen and mixing too much Scotch and Firewhiskey would poison him, and none of them would bother to take him down to the infirmary - they wouldn't dare exposing themselves. Draco didn't care. He shrugged the feeling numb, and lie back again on the window sill.

For a moment things would slowly shift in his focus, and sometimes he'd grin at them. He'd grin when the grey stones occasionally flashed blue or spun around in little circles. He'd reach for them, only to retreat again back to the whiskey, only to think again about the match he'd just lost only hours prior to it all. How only four hours earlier he'd been so sure he'd be able to be on top of it all. Flint had told him that he'd better keep his eyes peeled for the Snitch, that he'd make sure that above all else, he was a good little Seeker and that he didn't ditch Higgs for nothing. Draco took an extra long gulp when he thought about Higgs, and how Flint was always comparing him to Higgs.

"Higgs couldn't even beat Potter either!" Draco slurred out loud, without realization. Not that it mattered, there was no one in the North lavatory anyway, save himself.

The day prior to this, Adrian Pucey had made it a point to remind Flint that Higgs was a had-been. Flint benched him for the final for it, and threw in the fact that the only person allowed to be cocky on the team was himself. Draco's spine tingled.

He ran what little sense and reminisces he could make of it through his head again for what seemed like the millionth time without keeping count. That afternoon Flint had gathered the team in the locker room and went on his usual rampage of threats, demands, and plays. Slytherin would win the Quidditch Cup. Afterward, Montague threw out a few notes of encouragement by putting down the Gryffindor team, making fun of Wood, especially. Bletchley would start chanting and their adrenaline was pumping. But as they entered out onto the Pitch, Flint hissed in his ear about him beating Potter to the Snitch. Draco shuddered thinking about it, and took another sip. The bottle of Scotch was empty. He let it slide out of his hands and it crashed on the tile floor.

The game started bad, with Gryffindor scoring the first goal on a penalty. "Bloody fucking Bole," Draco swore. But their teams fought it out on the field. Warrington was weak on center though, Pucey was always a lot better than him. Draco swore again. It put the pressure on him to catch the Snitch even more. Part way through the game, he did the only thing he could think to do to beat Potter - latch onto his broom. There was something about the game that just kept distracting him. Maybe it was the Firebolt, but in his state he couldn't lat a finger on it. And yet, in the end, he failed again, and Draco cursed himself this time. He let his team down. He let his House down. He let his father down.

"I'm so bloody stupid!" the words slurred.

He turned from shuddering to actual writhing for a moment just thinking about how his father would react to his failure. To his inability to beat a half-blood, The Boy Who Lived. He thought about how his father would beat him with the fancy cane which was really only used for show, and most of all, he thought about what he would say. He thought about what word choice his father would use this time in the Howler, and how much bigger the bruise on his emotions would be when compared to the ones on his body.

He let a tear run down his face. Followed by another, and another. He sunk far down into the window sill.

After the game Flint had screamed, he'd broken two doorknobs and a handle on the show in the locker room. He charmed one of the benches to zoom at him and Bletchley , and it crashed into the wall. And then after Bole, Montague, and Derrick had persuaded him to calm down and that they'd drink it off in the common room, Draco tried to politely ask if he could join them. His response was two bottles and a threatening warning about overdosing. He didn't care. After awhile he decided he couldn't even look at them without thinking about his punishment which lie ahead. Fear in mind, he dashed for the vacant North lavatory.

Sobbing now, Draco finished off the last of the Firewhiskey and let the bottle roll away on the floor. His mind was buzzing with the alcohol-induced sensation, it felt numbing, and yet all he could do was cry.

Meanwhile, outside the haven, Harry Potter trudged, sleepily. After his day, his exhausting weekend of training, practice, drilling, and Quidditch, he'd finally won. And not only he, but the entire team, Wood, who had desired it the most, had won. They had beat Slytherin. And they had cried, cheered, screamed, and jumped in ecstasy. He felt perfect, he felt like he himself had solely did it though, and rightfully so.

And yet after all the partying, all the crying, cheering, laughing, screaming, jumping, and celebrating, he'd after all, realized he'd left two of his school books in the class room just inside the North Tower. And after trudging, sleepily, to retrieve them, on top of all the Butterbeer he'd drank from celebrating, he'd realized he desperately need to use the rest room.

He made it into the facility, and without so much as a second passing after the moment he'd opened the lavatory door, he suddenly hear the pathetic sobbing of someone - it was definitely too human to be an owl or any other sort of creature. He jumped, startled for a moment, and then looked around to place the crying.

It was there on the sill that Draco suddenly stirred, groaned, and then rubbed his eyes.

"Wh-who's th-there!"

"...M-Malfoy?"

"I said, 'WHO'S THERE'!" Draco's words slurred.

"It's...Harry...Potter. Me. Harry Potter." This was insanity, Harry thought. He shook his head, and looked down. On the floor he could see the bottle of Firewhiskey, and the broken bottle of Scotch, which he knew to be another sort of something alcoholic. He shook his head. Wood and the twins had managed to drink a little more than their fill tonight, but it was nothing like this. Harry sighed. It was awkward.

"Mother, sod off! I'm wallowing in self-pity, and you still can't leave me alone! I bloody, fucking hate you!"

"The feeling's mutual," Harry responded, bluntly. "You're just a tad too smashed, no?"

"Flint has connections. What the hell do you want, Potter!"

"Well, I wanted to use the rest room, if that's plenty alright with you, Malfoy! Excuse me!"

"Be my guest!"

Something about the expression on the blond boy's tear-stained face made him look vulnerable, almost innocent in a way. Harry sighed again. It was all-together pathetic. He knew he should get Madam Pomfrey, or McGonagall or someone, but he decided not to risk it. He didn't want to blow his own team party cover, and something in his gut was telling him to hold back anyway. He finished his business in the lavatory, and washed his hands. Malfoy sobbing lightly the entire time.

How could he, Draco's mind was racing, his vision violently shifting in and out of focus now. Stupid Harry Potter couldn't leave him alone for a single moment. Bloody Potter with his perfect Quidditch skills and broom. Draco watched him as he washed his hands in the basin, carefully. He held out his own hand, and pointed, and traced Potter's outline as he did so.

Harry noticed. "What are you doing?" the moment he said it, he realized he'd never get a straight answer. Malfoy was too drunk for that.

The blond grunted. "I hate you, I hate you, I hate him, I hate Flint, I hate..."

Harry raised an eyebrow. "Yeah?" he said, "Yeah, so what's your problem, Malfoy? Why're you blubbering?" Something about the helpless Slytherin made the situation feel even more pathetic than it already was. He felt that if Malfoy really was a drunk as he seemed, that it would at least make for some serious blackmail later. Harry silently wished he could conjure a camera.

Draco felt his own face getting hot with disgust. "Like you care, Potter? No no no, you'd be happy, you'd probably bloody help him!"

"Help who?" Harry was curious now.

Draco's tears had since stopped flooding, and he felt a sort of rage rise within him. How could Potter not know? "My father!" he cried out, "He's gonna thrash me! I lost it for him and everyone!"

For a moment Harry felt like he'd been struck with a club. He took a few steps forward toward Malfoy, pondered him for a moment, and processed what the boy said.

Malfoy watched him, without bothering to stop him. He slowly analyzed Potter, pausing for a moment to see if he had any more liquor to maybe offer him. He didn't see any, and then fell back against the sill, his head colliding with the panel. He laid for a moment and then sat up again, asking, "You got any Firewhiskey?"

Harry shook his head.

"Scotch? Gin? Anything?"

Again Harry shook his head, and took another step so that he was only about a foot away from the other boy, still processing what he'd said before. "Wait a minute. So, what you're saying to me, is that your father rather, _abuses_ you?"

Draco silently cursed to himself when Potter shook his head, and rested himself against the sill panels. Things were spinning and shifting in every which way, and he liked it. As Potter spoke, he took a moment to process it, and then though. "Uh...s'what those filthy Muggles call it!" None of this was making sense. He wanted to yelled at Potter for ruining his life, but he couldn't, and rather just laid back and stared at him. "I wish I had nice eyes," he said, finally, afterward.

The first part sent a chill down Harry's back. He'd lived with the Dursleys for thirteen years, and while they almost practically starved and neglected him, they'd never actually physically abused him. Harry was actually rather stunned. Lucius Malfoy seemed like the type that would often forget to love and hug his son, but to actually, physically abuse him made his mind race. But it was Malfoy's second comment that actually sent his brain for a loop. He cringed. The stench of alcohol on Malfoy's breath was nauseating. "My eyes?"

"Yeah," said Draco, staring directly into them. "I bet if I had nice eyes people would like me as much as they liked you. Maybe I could be a better Quidditch player..."

Harry knew he was drunkenly rambling now at this point, and he didn't decide to push the former factor any further. He didn't say anything but rather, waited to see if Malfoy would finish what he'd begun saying.

"...yeah. I could be a better Quidditch player. But I can't be. I'm bloody horrible."

Harry thought for a moment, and before he could refrain himself, he asked, "But don't you think you could be better?"

"Nah," Draco mumbled, and then a silent tear fell down his cheek. He was leaning forward, just looking into the black-haired boy's eyes, so close to his face that Harry could feel him breathing heavily on him, and almost taste the alcohol himself.

The next moment seemed to go by in a blur for both of them. Draco leaned forward still, and as he did he began to lose his balance on the sill. Harry held out his arms in order to keep the blond from toppling onto him, and as he did, Draco seemed to slip perfectly between them. He fell with his head colliding with Harry's shoulder. Harry let out a gasp, and Draco only surpassed a groan, and then looking up, their lips met, and Draco pressed on forward.

Their mouths opened, and both of their tongues slipped out over the other's. Harry could really taste the alcohol now, and partially gagged on the combination of it and the foreign object now known as Malfoy's tongue in his mouth. But he didn't reject it, and in a few moments, was kissing him back. Draco pressed harder onto him, almost losing his balance. Harry slipped his arms around his waist.

It only lasted a few second longer before Malfoy pulled out and turned away again, in disgust. With his buzz, he suddenly became excruciatingly dizzy, and stumbled up against the wall and then sunk down onto his knees. "Merlin, Potter! Why don't you just bloody go away! You already won the Cup, okay!" and the sobbing began once again.

Harry jumped to catch him, but only decided to let him fall a moment too soon. He stood back, just thinking. He was his arch rival of all rivals. His enemy. And yet they were only thirteen, and it had been his first kiss, but probably not Malfoy's. And he was drunk and reeked of alcohol, after only spilling a portion of his guts to him. He took another step back in total, utter confusion.

Draco let out a shout of confusion as well from his position on the floor. He was equally possessed by fear. "I just wish I could make the whole bloody world go away..."

With that he closed his eyes, shuddering on the lavatory floor. And as Harry watched he slowly tried to regain himself, took a few steps slowly out of the facility with his two books, turned the corner, and ran.

_fin_


End file.
